


Recovery

by theroguesgambit



Series: gunplay [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Stiles, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shower Sex, Trauma Recovery, and just a lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:53:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of being forced to gunpoint at each others' hands, Stiles and Derek find comfort in each others' arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> prompt request: a smutty aftermath for Gunplay. (This is about 1 part angst, 2 parts h/c and one part smut)  
> \--
> 
> I've finally decided to separate this into two stories, because they have very different feels to them that warrants a bit of separation, and while I enjoy this section quite a bit, I do think the first part very much stands on its own.

_Cold metal wrapped wrong in resisting fingers._

_Wet brown eyes, a solid click._

_“Trust me, Derek.”_

.-

Stiles ends the call and slides the phone along the line of his jeans three times, searching for the pocket. He laughs, faint and shaky, at his own fumbling.

“Dad, uh… Dad says it’s ok if we get out of here. I mean, technically we’re not supposed to. Crime scene and all but uh… but he said he’ll get statements later.” He nearly drops the phone and Derek catches it, shifting closer and sliding it smoothly into Stiles’ pocket for him.

Stiles’ next breath shudders out loud, and there’s so much residual tension-fear-guilt-want around him that Derek can’t hope to tell which of the emotions had sparked it.

Then his hand snakes around Derek’s and he says, soft: “Perks of being with the Sheriff’s kid, huh?”

Derek latches onto him the second they make contact, fingers twisting and clenching tight into the _right-warm-alive_ of him. He hadn’t realized how _wrong_ he’d felt, not touching Stiles, until they were back in contact. How unsettled he’d felt in his own skin.

He smirks to cover his relief.

“Knew there had to be a reason.”

Stiles is smiling soft, thumb playing over Derek’s knuckles. He laughs at the jibe, and Derek wants to kiss him again with a fierceness that startles him. Wants to cradle him close to his chest, protect him from the threat that’s already gone.

There are specks of crimson coloring Stiles’ face. Derek’s hands are starting to itch from the blood drying across them. Stiles’ tracing fingers smear at it, flaking it to the ground.

“We should go,” he breathes, and Stiles nods soundlessly. But when he tugs at Derek it isn’t toward the door, it’s straight into Stiles.

And Derek follows him forward because he can’t deny him anything in this moment, because he needs the closeness just as much, if not more. The heat of Stiles’ skin, the tangible, _tactile_ proof that this nightmare – that Derek’s _own hand –_ hadn’t destroyed another person he—

Stiles _whines_ as their mouths meet, their second kiss tasting as much of copper as their first had of pure panic. His hands are in Derek’s hair and Derek’sare leaving bloody stains down the sides of Stiles’ shirt but he doesn’t care, _can’t_ care when this is Stiles, alive and _wanting_ , pressed all along his chest. Still whining, quick, needy whimpers, with every slide of Derek’s hands, every shift in the angle of their mouths.

…His whole body shuddering violently in Derek’s grip, rattling like he’s about to vibrate free any second if Derek doesn’t just _hold on_.

He should probably pull back. The idea twists sick in his gut and he finds himself kissing harder, sliding a hand up Stiles’ back, adrenaline reeking off Stiles’ skin in waves that leave him dizzy with need. He crowds Stiles back a step, another, searching for a wall, the table, anything he can press him down on and just _taste_ him all over.

Then Stiles stumbles in his grip, almost bringing them both down before Derek steadies them. He breaks away, looking past Stiles to find the slow-cooling body of one of the hunters. His blood’s soaking their shoes, Stiles’ left foot down half on his outstretched hand.

Stiles lets out a sick sort of shudder as he follows Derek’s gaze. Shifts his foot slowly, like he doesn’t want to disturb the corpse.

“We’ve been through worse than this,” he says. Makes no move to unfist his hands from Derek’s hair. “Three sicko hunters… we’ve faced down _way_ worse than that, Derek. Why the hell do I feel so…” A second, full-bodied shudder completes his thought for him.

Derek shifts them both carefully, away from the body and the blood.

“We should go,” he says again, but Stiles is still staring back at the body with a look of concentrated focus, like this situation is a puzzle he can evaluate and solve instead of a nightmare to shake off and move on from.

The hunter he’d stepped on is the one Stiles had killed – beaten to death with the gun they’d been forced to use on each other. Derek licks his lips, tastes Stiles and old terror and sickly-sour death in the air.

“That… you had to do that, Stiles. We wouldn’t have—“

“I don’t feel bad about that,” Stiles cuts in, gaze slicing through the air back to Derek. Eyes a little too wide, heartbeat fast but even. “I’m not _happy_ about it but after that little _Saw_ routine they pulled… and I’m guessing from the way they acted we’re not the first people they tried that on…” His eyes stray to Derek’s forehead. Hand moves slow to brush over it again, the space of the wound he’d almost made. “I just, I’ve never… I almost _killed you_ , Derek. I’ve never… I don’t ever want to—” He cuts off, lips twisting bitterly. His own humorless laugh makes him look down.

Derek’s staring back for a whole different reason.

Because _that’s why_ he feels like he can’t breathe right. That’s why his skin still feels like he’s fighting to buzz out of it. Because this is… because…

 _Because Stiles had survived_.

He swallows, thick, around the names of all the people who hadn’t. All the people his claws had sunk into, who his own ignorance or selfishness or _failure_ had sentenced to an early grave.

It spills out rough, wondering:

“This is the first time I _didn’t_.”

Stiles’ laughter dies, his eyes wavering slow back up to Derek’s. His lips part, like he’s waiting for a sound to escape of its own volition, but in the end he just leans in and lets his lips brush against Derek’s again.

It’s their first kiss that’s really a _kiss_. That’s not an act of panicked desperation or adrenaline-fueled contact. It’s soft and chaste, and when Stiles pulls back Derek feels like his breath has been taken away with him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stiles says, and Derek nods.

.-

They head, by unspoken agreement, to the loft. Stiles’ dad will be dealing with the aftermath for hours, and Scott’s with Chris Argent, making sure these hunters hadn’t been part of some larger organization.

And Derek feels wrong without Stiles’ fingers threaded through his.

Stiles doesn’t say much throughout the ride, leg bouncing, agitated, for long periods before his gaze settles on his bloodied shirt or their linked fingers, and he goes still.

Derek contemplates turning on the radio, decides that whatever comes on, upbeat or sad, will find its way to being morbid fast. Squeezes Stiles’ fingers and tries not to think about the _coldwrong_ of gunmetal, the pressure of a trigger, the way Stiles’ whole body had shuddered and recoiled when he’d pulled it.

They’ve been through worse than this.

Stiles huddles against him in the elevator, thumb brushing Derek’s forehead, rubbing at some invisible mark, nose buried in the crook of his neck as though he can scent the lifeblood flowing beneath his skin. He doesn’t open his mouth, doesn’t do anything but breathe, and Derek aches with the tension of not pressing their lips back together, not pressing Stiles into the nearest wall and riding out the leftover adrenaline against his willing body. Sinking to his knees and kissing across every inch of unbroken skin.

The scent of the hunters’ blood is enough to stop him, barely, and when the elevator dings Stiles slides away.

Derek has to let go of Stiles’ hand to dig out his key and they don’t come together again afterward, the easy contact feeling suddenly awkward in the familiar space of the loft. As though their old lives, old identities, had been shredded away under the weight of that gun, and they’ve only just stumbled back into their skins, remembered who they are.

Stiles and Derek. Hyperactive human teen and brooding werewolf. Barely friends, laughable as lovers. How the fuck would their lives fit, anyway?

Stiles takes a few faltering steps into the loft. Derek slides the door shut behind him and doesn’t follow. Then they stand apart in silence for too long, eyes drifting over each other and away. And the urge to be with Stiles, that restless desire to _feel-take-have,_ isn’t gone, but Derek doesn’t know what to _do_ with it anymore.  

It’s Stiles who breaks the silence, lifts a hand to scrub at his blood-spattered jaw and grimaces through his own awkward laughter.

“Ok, so. Showering. ‘Cause dude, you’ve never looked so much like a serial killer and I don’t even want to _guess_ about me right now, so just… do you mind? Showering?”

 _Together?_ Derek thinks. Catches himself before the word forms, rubbing his own hands against the thighs of his stained jeans and nodding.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” he says instead.

He’s stupidly grateful to have a task, something to focus on besides the buzzing want, the memory of the gun, the _wrong_ feeling of distance between them. He’ll have to wash his hands before he touches fresh clothes, is halfway to the kitchen before Stiles says “Come with me?”

He stalls midstep, turns to find Stiles staring back at him, chin up, determined.

“I just… I feel wrong when you’re not with me, ok? Can we just…”

Derek can’t deny him anything. Wouldn’t want to. The slow nod he gives feels like a relief.

“Thank fuck,” Stiles breathes. “Ok, so let’s…” He holds out his hand and Derek finds himself crossing the room in fast steps, catching onto it without thinking.

He half expects Stiles to kiss him, but he just smiles – a little, half-crooked thing like he knows just what a relief the skin to skin contact is for Derek – and tugs him gently into the bathroom.

He gets as far as the doorway, stalls the second Stiles lets go. Stiles continues on, gets the water running and adjusts the taps until the bathroom starts to fill with a gentle steam. When he finally turns back, Derek still hasn’t moved. _Wants_ to move, to strip bare and push himself into Stiles’ space _too much_ to do anything but hold himself still and stare.

“I can wait here ‘til you’re done.”

It takes everything he has to say it, but Stiles rolls his eyes. The impatience of the movement is familiar enough to be comforting.

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re a bigger mess than I am.”

Derek’s throat clicks dry on his next swallow.

“I can wait until—“

“ _Derek_.” He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until he forces a blink and feels the burn in his eyes. Stiles is looking at him with something like frustration, something like fondness, without a touch of the insecurity curling through Derek’s own gut. “Do you want to shower with me?”

The short answer to that has been obvious since the first time Derek had pressed the gun to Stiles’ temple, pressed a spine-quivering kiss to his mouth along with it.

The longer answer involves words like “trauma” and “so much younger” and “he might regret this tomorrow.”

Stiles lets out a long breath, plays at the hem of his bloodied shirt before letting go, crossing the small bathroom to cup both hands along Derek’s jaw instead.

“Hey, I know what I need right now, and you… whatever you want to do is fine. I just need to know what that is.”

Derek breathes sharp, twists to kiss into Stiles’ palm, drink in his scent, untainted by the stink of enemy blood and old fear.

“Today’s been bad,” he returns. Stiles’ reply is a half-pained chuckle, a shuffle inward.

“Understatement.” And then, softer: “Tell me what’ll make it better, Derek.”

He doesn’t have words for it, though. For the way he can’t quite believe they’ve both made it out of that unscathed. The way his perception of the world can’t _quite_ shift enough to make sense of the idea that he’d _literally_ held a gunto Stiles’ forehead, and somehow they’d both made it out alive. He doesn’t _have_ that kind of luck. He doesn’t _beat_ those kinds of odds. His whole life has been a series of no win scenarios, of everything he dares to love being stripped away without warning.

Except for Stiles.

 _Always_ except for Stiles.

He wants to shelter this boy from the inevitable danger of existing in Derek’s life. Wants to take hold of this beautiful, brilliant, infuriating, _perfect_ man and never let go.

“Let’s just get this blood off us,” he says, and feels Stiles nod more than sees it. Lets Stiles guide him out of his shirt, then reaches out to help Stiles out of his own in turn. There are dark stains across Stiles’ chest where the fabric tries to stick, and Derek thumbs across them like war wounds until Stiles huffs, coos sarcastic endearments with a too-even heartbeat, tugs him in by the belt loops and thumbs open the button on Derek’s jeans.

The rest of their clothes strip away with a minimum amount of groping. Stiles steps back after dragging down Derek’s zipper, focusing on his own clothes with an intensity that gives away his interest almost more than any lingering touches would. Spicy-rich arousal spikes through the room as Derek strips off his briefs, but when he looks up Stiles is facing the other direction, stepping into the shower.

The water’s hot enough to leave Stiles’ skin pink where it hits, but Stiles slides his eyes shut with a hint of a smile, seeming to savor the burn. Derek watches him tilt his head back, watches his hair slowly flatten while the water streams red down his neck, until Stiles makes an impatient noise and opens his eyes, urging Derek in after him.

It’s not cramped inside, but the enclosed space makes everything seem sharper, more intimate. Derek feels his nakedness in the spray of the water more than the weight of Stiles’ gaze though, which, now that they’re standing inches apart, doesn’t stray below Derek’s waist. Derek follows suit, not entirely sure which of them is setting the pace here. Not letting himself dwell on the tight curve of Stiles’ ass, or his cock, half-hard and heavy between his legs. Or the way Derek’s whole body is thrumming to press Stiles out of the heat of the water, to kiss the droplets away and sooth the pinking skin with his tongue.

He settles for cleaning the scent of their nightmare away: massaging a thick lather into Stiles’ scalp while the boy tilts his head back into the contact, making appreciative noises. His neck is long and pale and Derek’s next breath drags out with a sound – stripped down and ragged. He wants to chase that now-clear water with his mouth, his teeth, to darken that pale expanse with claiming bruises, to make Stiles _moan._

A grin breaks over Stiles’ face, and then he’s catching one of Derek’s hands in his own, dragging it down and kissing fast at his knuckles in a way that feels almost like habit already. His eyes go hot and Derek waits for the inevitable push forward, the drag of mouths and _skin_ and Stiles’ cock, curved, dark and leakingarousal against Stiles’ belly.

But Stiles just reaches past Derek for the shower gel and pours a line of it down Derek’s arm. It’s sharply cold against the steam of the air, and Stiles’ lips curve when Derek jumps at the contact. He’s meticulous in his cleaning, massaging the tension out of Derek’s forearms and hands, getting under his nails where the hunters’ blood had stuck.

He doesn’t look up when he says, even and unhurried: “So you really do want me, huh?”

Derek blinks at the question, watches Stiles carefully scrub crusted blood from his inner elbow.

“You doubt that?”

Because Derek’s doubting a lot of things right now, maybe – whether this is a good idea, whether he can actually be this lucky – but not how much he _wants_ this.

Stiles swallows, pausing with his thumb pressed to Derek’s elbow. His eyes skitter across Derek’s chest and away, and it’s the most nervous Derek has seen him since the warehouse. Since he’d breathed a plea for Derek’s trust against his hand.

“I mean… not really. There’s always kind of been something, huh?”

Derek catches his chin, drags his gaze firmly upward.

“More than kind of.”

It’s a hell of a step down from the “I love yous” they’d uttered a few hours before, and Derek wonders at how confessions had been so much easier with a bullet between them. Stiles doesn’t seem to feel slighted, though. Scans Derek’s face like he can hardly believe the confession, biting his lip over the start of a grin.

“ _Awesome,_ ” he says, with feeling, and it’s so painfully endearing that Derek finds himself smiling back, finds himself wondering if there’s anything Stiles can do right now that he _won’t_ find appealing. He’d be rolling his eyes at himself any other day, battering down any affection almost before he could recognize it. But right now he can’t begin to hold back, just wants Stiles in any way he can get him. Wants him smiling and safe, wants him broken apart with desire. Wants everything so much that it hits like a blow to the gut when Stiles drops his hold on Derek’s arm and falls back with a slow, shaking breath.

Stiles _wants_ him too, there’s no doubting that. Derek could smell it in the air even if he couldn’t see it, his arousal hard and obvious against his belly. Something snarling and primal inside of Derek screams at him to push forward, to find respite in the welcome of Stiles’ body. But he can’t, not while Stiles is so plainly holding back.

Stiles’ frustration burns through the air, and Derek doesn’t _understand_ … Not until he remembers Stiles’ hands cupping his jaw outside the shower, tone painfully earnest as he’d asked what Derek had wanted.

“You can kiss me if you want,” he blurts. And it feels so _stupid_ coming out, clumsy and too loud because who _says_ something like that? Who _asks_ for a kiss, instead of taking it? Derek has all of half a second to feel horribly exposed, to start recoiling into that cold, walled off place inside himself before Stiles looks back with a hopeful expression, and Derek realizes he’d been right.

Stiles had been holding back for him. _Looking out_ for him. Trying to respect what he’d said he wanted and…

And in all Derek’s life, he has _never_ had that before.

“Yeah?” Stiles breathes, but Derek’s already reaching out, gripping his nape, tugging him closer.

Their mouths find each other with an intensity that nearly makes Derek recoil, he wants it so badly. It’s all desperate contact, too needy on both ends, Stiles’ nails digging at his shoulders, gripping and shoving at him until he’s leaning back into steam-warmed tile, roughing Stiles’ panting mouth with biting kisses, sucking on his bottom lip until he _keens_.

There’s still too much space between them, Stiles’ hands keeping them a few aching inches apart even as they hold onto him painfully tight, his whole body quavering.

“ _Oh god_ , can I… Derek, can I—”

And Derek remembers past the sweet-hot haze of wanting _why_ he’d hesitated about this in the first place, draws back far enough to take in Stiles’ face.

“Are _you_ sure?”

“ _Yes._ ” It comes out too loud, fondness and frustration and a hint of desperation that resonates too deeply with Derek’s half-shattered soul.“Yes for so many reasons, ok? I’ve wanted… I’ve waited… I thought you were gonna _die_ today, Derek. I thought I was going to _kill_ you.”

It’s the best reason, and a terrible reason, and Derek doesn’t know how to begin to assure Stiles that they don’t have to rush things because of that, that he’s not _going anywhere_.

“You saved me,” He says instead. “You saved _us_.” Something dark and wary flits over Stiles’ face at that, and Derek latches onto it, chases it back to its source. “That’s not why… I meant everything. This isn’t gratitude.”

Stiles nods, visibly breathes easier. Leans in to rest his forehead against Derek’s, and the shelter between their faces feels so much like home he _aches_ with it.

“And this isn’t relief,” Stiles says. “This isn’t me losing control, ok? This is me taking it _back_. This isn’t me breaking down, this is me pulling myself back up. If you don’t want to, or want to wait… I get that. I’m fine with that. Don’t say yes for me, ok? But don’t say no for me either. I can make my own decisions. I _need_ to.”

He knows what control means to Stiles. He knows that the worst part of this entire mess – worse than the blood, worse, probably, than almost dying – had been having his choices stolen away. Having a weapon forced into his hands; being _used_ as a weapon. In Derek’s eyes, Stiles had saved them. Stiles had done what he’d _always_ done: come through with a plan in the face of certain defeat.

But saying that won’t change how Stiles had _felt_ , any more than Stiles standing here in front of Derek can change the creeping, horrible notion in Derek’s gut that he _almost wasn’t._

Derek lets his hands slide slow to Stiles’ hips.

“I’m not saying no.”

Stiles grins, somehow filthy and grateful in a single expression, and melts into Derek’s embrace.

The kiss is slower this time, accented with sliding hands, searching tongues, and appreciative sighs barely heard over the spray of the water. And Derek finally relaxes into his impulse to cradle Stiles against him, tugging him in and twisting until Stiles’ back is against the tile instead, until Derek’s taking the brunt of the still too-hot water. He barely feels the burn of it, too caught up in the shivery warmth everywhere their bodies touch.

And it’s _nice_. To take something for Stiles, to guard him in this small way. To just, for a few seconds, be a barrier between this boy and the rest of the world. He’s almost achingly hard and Stiles’ cock is grinding in little, hitched movements against his thigh, but he feels like he could almost forget that, could just lose himself in the wet slide of their mouths, the contented sounds vibrating up his throat. The way Stiles’ nails scrape up his neck, across his scalp, clutch into his shoulders like he barely remembers how to stand on his own, like Derek’s the only thing in the world keeping him anchored.

Stiles’ mouth is an _addiction_ but he finally breaks away, giving in to the desire to taste him all over. To kiss and lick the wet droplets from his long, arching neck, his collar, his chest. To take in Stiles’ scent and leave his own behind. There are bruises across Stiles’ chest and sides from when they were being taken prisoner, and Derek sinks down slowly, falling to his knees and kissing around them, whining at the scent of blood blooming in purple-blue splotches under his skin. Stiles hisses as Derek nuzzles at an ugly mark on his hip, but grips his hair hard, keeps him from pulling away.

“Don’t, it’s good. It feels like… We’re fucking _alive_ , Derek.”

It comes out giddy and rough and so full of emotion that Derek can’t even _hope_ to answer in kind. Instead he nips, soft, at Stiles’ purpling skin, looks up.

“We haven’t quite gotten to the fucking yet.”

Stiles stares down at him, eyes wide, before laughing.

“That’s… that was _awful_ , and amazing. And I kind of really want to blow you now.”

Derek just arches his brows, hands squeezing pointedly into the backs of Stiles’ thighs. Stiles slumps back against the wall with a put upon sigh.

“Fine, I guess you can blow me first. Have at it.” But there’s a tremble in his tone and his cock’s leaking _frantically_ in front of Derek’s face, and he gives in to the impulse to just duck in and—

“ _Uhnn… yes_.” Stiles’ hips rock out, hand going to grasp at Derek’s soaked hair again. “ _Fuck_ , that’s… you…”

Derek moans at the tug of Stiles’ hands, the way his hips fight to fuck out with every bob of Derek’s head, every drag of tongue. He hasn’t done this in years, doesn’t remember it feeling this way when he had. But this, being buried so deep in the taste and scent of Stiles, leaving _his_ scent all over, marking this boy’s flesh as his…

His hand skates up Stiles’ thigh to cup at his ass, clutching the taut muscle as Stiles jumps, pumps forward a little too deep, grips Derek’s hair a little too hard. But it’s a _good_ burn, like Stiles had said; all pressure and contact and that _sting_ screaming they’re still alive. They’re _fucking alive_.

He loses himself for a while in the motion, the sensation, the pound of Stiles’ heartbeat picking up over the pulse of the water. The way his breaths hitch into half-bitten off words, scent rich and spiking higher against his tongue, the back of his throat.

He slides his hand up past Stiles’ ass to grip his waist, to dig his thumb into one of those dark purple bruises. And Stiles arches off the wall with a broken shout, come spurting into Derek’s greedy mouth, across his face and chest when he draws back to drink the sight of Stiles in. His whole body’s a taut line of too sharp angles, shoulders digging into the wall, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth gasping while Derek strokes him until his legs quiver from it. Until Derek licks those last, stray drops from Stiles’ cock and he _whines_ , twisting against the contact, that edge of too much and not wanting it to be over.

Stiles is still letting out wordless, needy sounds, grip loosening to clumsy pats against Derek’s cheek and neck. Urging him back to his feet, back to Stiles’ mouth, which presses sloppy kisses against his jaw, his cheek, his forehead, before finding its way back to Derek’s own. He groans against Derek’s lips, licking against his tongue, his teeth, going back to his jaw and chasing the drops of come on Derek’s beard like he’s starving for them.

Finally he pulls back, flushed and grinning lazily, hand rubbing at the flecks on Derek’s collar and chest. Derek can’t tell if he’s trying to clean it off under the spray, or if he _knows_ that he’s just rubbing the scent in.

…Who the fuck is Derek kidding? Stiles knows. Knows exactly what his scent is doing to Derek, what being _marked_ like this is doing. How it makes him ache to mark back. He leans into the contact, drags in a deep breath of their mingling scent as Stiles laughs.

“Ok, so _that_? Totally worth almost getting shot in the head twice.”

Stiles sounds giddy, loose, come-drunk, but Derek’s grip tightens on his waist.

“Can we not talk about getting shot in the head?”

Stiles just nips at his jaw, teeth grazing over stubble in a way that has Derek shivering, tension bleeding away despite himself.

“We can talk about other kinds of head.”

It’s ridiculous and terrible and Derek snorts, brows quirking.

“And you thought _mine_ was bad?”

“Hey, it’s not like I’ve got to impress you anymore, big guy. You already showed your hand. You _like_ me. You think I’m hot and punny and irresistible.” Derek _refuses_ to smile at that, no matter how pleased Stiles looks. Is pursing his lips, rolling his eyes pointedly when Stiles’ hand curls boldly around his cock. Whatever comeback might’ve been forming bleeds into a rough grunt, his hips rolling into the sweet, tight pressure. Stiles is still grinning, smug, when he finds his eyes again. “And now that we’re all nice and clean, how about you spread me out on that big bed of yours and fuck me?“

Derek licks his lips because _yes,_ he wants that. Wants to pin Stiles down at the wrists, hold him here where it’s safe. Wants to open him up and pound into him until he can’t remember anything but Derek’s name and a desperate need for more.

But that’s not what Stiles needs today. Derek needs contact, but Stiles needs _control_.

He turns the taps off, and in the ringing absence of falling water says, “How about you spread me out on my big bed and ride me?”

Stiles’ eyes go large, mouth hanging open for a few panted breaths before he pushes off the wall, diving into a rough and sloppy kiss that almost has Derek stumbling. They wrestle their way out of the shower, barely pausing long enough to towel each other half-dry (more an excuse to feel each other up through the rough fabric of the towels than anything) before they’re kissing again, stumbling out into the main room. Stiles practically _climbing_ Derek, leg dragging up his thigh every time they’re still long enough for him to lift it, tripping them back against the table, the couch, until Derek just gives in and hoists him up, letting Stiles’ long legs wrap around his hips.

It’s only another five steps after that before he’s lowering Stiles to the bed, dropping him the last half a foot just to hear him laugh at the bouncing impact, to watch his hands go out, greedy, to drag Derek down after him.

“I’m _never_ mocking you for having your bed out here again.”

Derek glances back to the narrow spiral staircase leading to the next floor, wondering how the hell anyone would have expected him to get a _bed_ up there.

“It’s convenient,” he says, and Stiles tugs at his neck, dragging his attention back to his grinning mouth.

“That’s my _point_ , dude. Now please tell me you’ve got some lube handy, or does all that general broodiness come from some horribly misguided exercise in abstinence?”

Derek huffs.

“I’m not a _monk_.” And Stiles slides his gaze down their bare bodies. That grin’s back, so fucking _smug_ , and Derek wants to _devour_ it.

“I mean… _obviously_.”

Derek bares his teeth and lets his eyes flash, grins at the way Stiles’ arousal _spikes_ along with his hitched breath, then rolls away to grab the bottle of lube from his nightstand.

“Half empty,” Stiles observes approvingly when Derek tosses it over. Pushes himself to his knees, brows waggling. “You have someone special in mind on those long, lonely nights?”

“Who said I was alone?” Derek tosses back idly. Immediately regrets it at Stiles’ scrunched up frown. Not that it would matter if Derek had been with anyone else. Might have been healthier, honestly, than the way he’s been isolating himself. In New York there had been the occasional faceless stranger. In Beacon Hills there had been no one, and then Jennifer, which had been worse.

But he doesn’t want Stiles going into this wondering about competition, or how he measures up to whatever phantom lovers he’s probably conjuring up right now. More muscles or more curves or a thousand other things Derek doesn’t give a shit about because they’re not _Stiles_. And he doesn’t know how it’d taken the threat of losing Stiles forever for him to realize how much his measure of beauty, of desirability, of _worth_ had started being measured against all things Stiles. He can’t even pinpoint when it had happened, whether his standards had shifted, or Stiles had shifted right into standards he hadn’t even known he _had_.

He shifts back across the bed, leaning in slow to drag his nose across Stiles’ temple. It’s easier to talk without looking him in the eyes. Easier to admit: “I never really thought about anyone. I’ve lost too many things by letting myself want them.”

Stiles’ next breath drags in loud. He doesn’t draw back, though, lets Derek take shelter in the safety of his neck.

“But?”

“But I didn’t let myself want you, and you almost died anyway.”

A hand trails a loose spiral across Derek’s back.

“I didn’t, though.”

“You didn’t,” Derek agrees. And even if Stiles had, would Derek have felt any better for not having let himself have this? Not _having_ Stiles hadn’t kept him safe. Hadn’t kept Derek from feeling what he felt. Not having him and losing him would have been its own tragedy.

Stiles is tilting his chin back now, not letting him hide, searching his face like he wants to say more, wants to push this, wants to break Derek open in a way he doesn’t know if he’ll recover from. He’s already shaking under the weight of that knowing gaze. Doesn’t know if he’ll survive it if Stiles starts making declarations of forever or beating the odds or being safer together… or a thousand other things experience has trained Derek’s brain just _not_ to accept.

Instead, Stiles just ducks in, eyes still dragging slow over his face, and presses him slowly backward.

There’s the clip of a cap flicking open, Stiles’ kiss going sharp for a second as his hips twist into the pressure of his own fingers. Derek wants to watch, to see Stiles stretching himself open, but he can’t tear himself away from the shifting intensity of Stiles’ mouth. It’s all friction and want and rising desperation, everything too hard and sharp and _not enough_.

Stiles’ right hand comes back into play, clutching at Derek’s bicep as he starts whining a wordless rhythm of _now-more-now_ into Derek’s skin _._ Gripping, tugging, and then gone again, fumbling clumsily off to the side until it’s back, wrapping around him. Slick and bitingly cool with lube but the friction’s so damn good Derek can’t _breathe,_ can’t do anything but roll up into it, clutch at Stiles’ hips.

Their breaths both catch and shudder out loud as Stiles sinks down onto him, everything going aching hot and tight and _right_ in a way sex has never felt for Derek. In a way he’s not sure he’s _ever_ felt. There’s trust here, and safety, and Stiles’ face fracturing in an exquisite twist of almost-pain that has Derek’s hand lifting, trailing over the sharp, shadow-lines of his jaw. Stiles’ eyes are screwed shut; he twists, panting, to kiss at Derek’s palm.

“ _God_ , that’s… that’s just… _oh god_.”

One hand braces on Derek’s chest, the other holding Derek’s to his cheek as he shifts, a restless-hot flash of friction that punches a groan out of Derek. He rests a moment and then moves again, shifting half up and sinking, rhythmless. Panting wet kisses into Derek’s palm.

“That’s… Derek, I need—“

His grip on Stiles’ hip goes tight, guiding him easily up and then back down in a smooth stroke that has Stiles’ back arching, has him following the motion with a second, slightly faster roll.

“I need—”

“I know,” Derek breathes back and Stiles’ eyes drift open, heavy with want and relief and just a _hint_ of familiar impatience.

“Then _give it to me._ ”

Derek powers up into the next fall of Stiles’ hips and Stiles’ hand goes tight on his. Dropping down until their laced fingers are braced on the bed beside Derek, until Stiles is curled over him, panting out wet little noises with each snap of Derek’s hips, driving down just a little too hard as his cock drags wet and desperate between them.

“ _Mine_ ,” It spikes out, rough and low, Stiles’ stubbed nails scraping up his chest. “You’re mine, and they can’t… they can’t just _take you_ , Derek, they can’t… I need…”

He arches up, swallows down Stiles’ words. Takes them into himself, half wonders if they’d somehow _come_ from him in the first place because they’re so much a part of him, twisting through him, residual panic and possessive desire skating off him in waves the same way his hands skate, soothing and rough,over Stiles’ bruised skin.

“I know,” he says again, and Stiles’ wide smile makes his heart flutter fast.

He would die for this boy, but there’s a lot Derek would die for. A good cause, any one of his allies, a one in six shot at victory. He’d known he would be willing to die for Stiles long before he realized how much he needed him.

But there’s not a lot that makes him ache to _live._

He finds himself smiling back, trailing a hand to wrap around Stiles’ cock.

It’s all fast and gasping after that, slipping back into beyond bitten off whines and the slick slide of skin. When Stiles comes Derek cradles him through it – the clutching hands and mindlessly dragging teeth, and body clenching in sweet little spasms that have Derek at the edge of his own release. Finally Stiles groans, patting loosely at Derek’s jaw, his chest.

“You, _you,_ Derek, come on…” Which is all the incentive he needs to roll them both on the bed, hiking up Stiles’ legs and fucking into him with long, barely controlled thrusts that Stiles pushes back into with broken sounds, like _he’s_ the one on the edge of a white-hot, toe curling—

He comes with a shudder and a sound like a sob, and can barely hold himself back from collapsing right onto Stiles, his whole body shocky and loose and so good he can’t _move_ from it.

“Yeah” Stiles is murmuring, and Derek doesn’t know if he’s murmuring out loud or it’s just written all over his face, but Stiles is grinning at him like he knows his every broken, hopeful, doubting, wanting thought. And feels the same. Derek sinks down next to him, kissing into his sweat-slick shoulder, just letting himself breathe.

“We’re alive,” he says finally, like it’s a revelation, and Stiles snorts, soft and fond. Cradles Derek’s hand in both of his own, kisses gently across each of his knuckles, and breathes three simple words, just soft enough for a wolf to hear.

Over and over, until they drift to sleep.


End file.
